Be warned. Some of these poems have spicy language in them. But hey, slam poetry & spoken word is kind of a Postmodernist thing!
This is Taylor Mali. He's one of the most famous slam poets in America. I bet you can't figure out why I love this poem so much! This is full of irony and a dash of paranoia.
Here is Rudy Francisco's spoken word performance of "Complainers." Consider his use of maximalism and fragmentation here when you watch his inspiring, energizing presentation!
Oh, come on. You knew there would be some Epic Rap Battles of History in here. I love the pastiche and historiographic metafiction elements of this one, combining historical events with Marvel comics. Perfect.
[Content Note in description below.]
This is spoken word called "Dear Anxiety" by Clayton Jennings. It is a powerful account of his overcoming anxiety, and it uses Postmodern elements of metafiction and intertextuality/pastiche. I tear up when I watch him. This one is heavier, so [CN - it addresses mental health issues, religion] skip this one if you think it's inappropriate for you.
So you sit down to watch a video called Dear Anxiety by Clayton Jennings and expect, what, a self-help talk? A little motivational speech about breathing in and breathing out? No. What you get instead is basically a slam poem having a panic attack on camera. It’s intense. It’s vulnerable. It’s raw enough to make your bones hurt.
Clayton starts by walking into what looks like a support group and then spirals — not just emotionally, but visually, poetically, spiritually. This is postmodernism in its most intimate form: mixing mediums (spoken word + cinematic storytelling), self-awareness (“I’m an actor who got really good at being ‘on’”), and pulling apart the very idea of what it means to perform healing when you’re still bleeding.
Which brings me to Euphoria. Rue, the main character? She is Clayton’s poem in human form. Both she and Clayton speak in monologues that make you feel like you’re drowning in a glittery ocean of pain. The lighting? Dramatic. The emotion? Violent and beautiful. The storytelling? Nonlinear and almost hallucinogenic. And the honesty? Almost too much. So much, in fact, that it hurts.
Both Anxiety and Euphoria tackle mental health in a way that’s poetic and cinematic, but they don’t sugarcoat it. Clayton’s “puddle of sweat” mirrors Rue’s cold-sweat detox scenes.
His “I can't get out of bed”
is Rue’s “I didn’t have a reason to get up” — just said differently. They both live in this world where trauma is loud, messy, and sometimes dressed in metaphor because the real thing is just too hard to look at.
And then there’s the hope — but not the cheesy kind. It’s rage-fueled hope. It’s “give me a torch and let’s light this up” kind of hope. That’s what makes it postmodern: neither of these stories believe in clean endings. They believe in chaos, relapse, stumbles, and still getting back up again. Whether it’s Rue climbing out of a bathtub after a breakdown or Clayton yelling at his demons, they both say: I’m still here. And that matters.
So yeah, Dear Anxiety and Euphoria might look different on the surface — one’s a spoken word film, the other’s an HBO drama soaked in neon lights — but they’re both screaming the same thing from the pit of their lungs:
“I’m not okay. But I’m still fighting.”
And honestly? That’s the most postmodern message of all.
So you sit down to watch a video called Dear Anxiety by Clayton Jennings and expect, what, a self-help talk? A little motivational speech about breathing in and breathing out? No. What you get instead is basically a slam poem having a panic attack on camera. It’s intense. It’s vulnerable. It’s raw enough to make your bones hurt.
Clayton starts by walking into what looks like a support group and then spirals — not just emotionally, but visually, poetically, spiritually. This is postmodernism in its most intimate form: mixing mediums (spoken word + cinematic storytelling), self-awareness (“I’m an actor who got really good at being ‘on’”), and pulling apart the very idea of what it means to perform healing when you’re still bleeding.
Which brings me to Euphoria. Rue, the main character? She is Clayton’s poem in human form. Both she and Clayton speak in monologues that make you feel like you’re drowning in a glittery ocean of pain. The lighting? Dramatic. The emotion? Violent and beautiful. The storytelling? Nonlinear and almost hallucinogenic. And the honesty? Almost too much. So much, in fact, that it hurts.
Both Anxiety and Euphoria tackle mental health in a way that’s poetic and cinematic, but they don’t sugarcoat it. Clayton’s “puddle of sweat” mirrors Rue’s cold-sweat detox scenes.
His “I can't get out of bed”
is Rue’s “I didn’t have a reason to get up” — just said differently. They both live in this world where trauma is loud, messy, and sometimes dressed in metaphor because the real thing is just too hard to look at.
And then there’s the hope — but not the cheesy kind. It’s rage-fueled hope. It’s “give me a torch and let’s light this up” kind of hope. That’s what makes it postmodern: neither of these stories believe in clean endings. They believe in chaos, relapse, stumbles, and still getting back up again. Whether it’s Rue climbing out of a bathtub after a breakdown or Clayton yelling at his demons, they both say: I’m still here. And that matters.
So yeah, Dear Anxiety and Euphoria might look different on the surface — one’s a spoken word film, the other’s an HBO drama soaked in neon lights — but they’re both screaming the same thing from the pit of their lungs:
“I’m not okay. But I’m still fighting.”
And honestly? That’s the most postmodern message of all.